


flushed away

by darutias



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Food Poisoning, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 03:06:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18983944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darutias/pseuds/darutias
Summary: “I’m dying,” he decides, flushing the toilet and resting his forehead against the rim. He feels disgusting. “I’m dying, I’m gonna die. Spider-Man dies to ravioli.”“Should I alert Boss?”Friday chirps, and Peter groans, waving a hand uselessly.“No, m’fine,” he grumbles. “WebMD will save me.”or: peter gets food poisoning & tony takes care of him.





	flushed away

**Author's Note:**

> shameless fluff & h/c, in a universe where we pretend the rogue avengers come back and work their shit out. why? because i love found families. :^( warnings for vomit & sick
> 
> title inspo: literally the movie flushed away, which i have never seen, but my gf has, and apparently a rat literally gets flushed down the toilet (?????)

His phone says 2:03AM, but his body says 10:34PM, because he’s wide awake and throwing up his guts into the toilet of the ensuite to his bedroom.

It was probably the ravioli. The cheese tasted funny.

 _Don’t think about the cheese_.

Unfortunately, the few seconds of contemplating dinner leaves him heaving, and bile and some of said dinner comes back up, burning his throat and nose; it’s awful and disgusting and he’s lost track of how long he’s been curled around the toilet, sweating and shaking and downright miserable. Of all days—nights?—to get sick, it _had_ to be while at the compound, and the only consolation is that everyone is asleep.

He can’t even _get_ sick, which means it’s probably food poisoning, and then he’s thinking about the cheese in the ravioli and the really, really good Greek salad, and shoving his head back in the toilet to throw that up, too.

His phone buzzes. It’s on the edge of the bathtub, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but his reflexes are a little shot at the moment, and the device teeters dangerously before taking a sad, pitiful dive off into the abyss. Peter stares at it, now out of reach, and lets out a very manly whimper that has nothing to do with the fact that his insides are eviscerating themselves. Is that possible? It is now, he decides.

“I’m dying,” he decides, flushing the toilet and resting his forehead against the rim. He feels disgusting. “I’m dying, I’m gonna die. Spider-Man dies to ravioli.”

“ _Should I alert Boss?_ ” Friday chirps, and Peter groans, waving a hand uselessly.

“No, m’fine,” he grumbles. “WebMD will save me.”

Except his phone is in the bathtub and he can’t move farther than the toilet, and his stomach really, really hurts, and it’s two in the morning and he just wants to _sleep_ but his entire body is hotwired to feel every single thing—not quite a sensory overload, but close enough, he decides.

_“Boss is on his way.”_

“Traitor.” Peter sniffs, regrets it immediately. His head spins with _oh god gross_ and _don’t think about the cheese_ , and then he’s dry heaving, his knee knocking into the base of the toilet and _why is this even happening_. All that comes out is bile, and that’s just as painful, has him thinking about the fact that his stomach is empty, which starts the cycle anew.

“Damn, FRI wasn’t kidding,” Tony says quietly, and Peter sobs a little at the sight of him. “Alright, hold on.”

The tap runs, and Peter counts to ten, prays for his stomach to settle; it doesn’t, and by the time Tony comes back with a cloth on the back of his neck, he’s retching again, water and acid and bile and, melodramatically, _pain_.

“I thought spider-kids didn’t get sick,” Tony teases, and Peter tries for a laugh, because yeah, he thought so too, but it mostly comes out a jumbled mess of spit and tears. Tony brings the cloth up to his mouth, his chin, wipes his face down, and Peter is sitting solidly at 110% embarrassment now. “Think it was dinner?”

_Don’t think about the cheese—_

“Oh, God,” he breathes, pushing Tony away, heaving back into the toilet. He’s never eating Italian again, and that’s going to break May’s heart into pieces. There’s nothing to bring _up_ , and his stomach doesn’t seem to understand this concept, and bodies are so, so weird. “Don’t… please… no cheese…”

Tony palms at his back, the dip between his shoulder blades, and it’s comforting and soft and he’s pretty sure he’s going to die from either this or mortal embarrassment, but that’s okay.

“Alright, no food talk,” Tony acquiesces, and Peter mumbles an attempt at a thank-you as he drops his head on the edge of the toilet. “Think you’re done?”

Peter shrugs. “Think I’m dying,” he whispers, staring blankly at the roll of toilet paper. It’s three-ply. Really, really soft. Expensive, probably.

“No one’s dying tonight, kiddo.” The tap is running again, and the hand is gone, and Peter makes a face at the roll of toilet paper—its fault. He’s not sure why, but that makes sense. “FRI, do a scan, would you?”   

The cloth is back. It’s cool and soft, softer than Tony’s hand but in a different way, and it washes away the grime and sticky sweat on his forehead, the side of his face and neck.

“ _Internal temperature reads at 102.3 degrees Fahrenheit, Boss.”_

Tony whistles under his breath and Peter makes a face, shooing him away weakly. “Sorry, kid. That’s—”

“Nooo,” Peter mutters, because he absolutely refuses to go anywhere that isn’t here. Or his bed, maybe. “No doctors.”

“Peter.”

He sniffles.

“That’s a fever,” Tony says slowly, and Peter eyes the toilet paper; him and Ned once filled Flash’s locker with six rolls of the cheap dollar store stuff in grade seven, after Flash had said some truly awful things about Peter’s parents, and he’s not sure why he’s thinking about it right now, but he is. “C’mon, buddy. Think you can at least make it to your bed?”

Peter sniffles again, but nods, letting Tony help him up. He sways dangerously, the tiles of the floor doing an amazing job of trying to swoop him off his feet, and it’s only the hands on his shoulders that keep him upright.

“Not adding concussion to the list tonight.” Tony guides him through the bathroom, and Peter mourns the loss of his phone, the poor thing most likely already taking a trip down the drain like Roddy, and he wonders if Tony has seen _Flushed Away_. He hopes his phone is happy. He hopes he treated his phone right, even if it did leave him with a bunch of cracks, and oh _god_ he’s a terrible phone-owner.

“…kid? Hey.” Peter blinks, focuses on the very concerned face of Mr. Stark. “There we go. Stay with me, here.”

Peter nods, lets Tony sit him on the edge of his bed. It’s incredibly soft— _clouds,_ he thinks—so much more than the bathroom floor, and Tony asks, “Think we can get your shirt off? Unless you want to sleep in some vomit.”

“Gross.” Peter makes a face, tries to tug it over his head, but his arms get stuck halfway and his whole body feels an awful lot like he drank his own web fluid. “M’stuck.”

Tony, clearly trying not to laugh, Peter can _tell_ , says, “Yup, you are. Here.”

His shirt is gone, and that’s permission enough for him to fall back onto the bed, but Tony seems to have other plans, because his arms are being maneuvered into something just as soft as the cloud-bed, something like cotton and smelling vaguely of laundry detergent.

“Try not to throw up on this one,” Tony mutters, and Peter sticks out his tongue, because Friday said something about 102.3 so he’s allowed. “Wow, you are officially downgraded to spider-baby, that’s just offensive.”

“It’s soft,” Peter points out, burrowing into his new nightshirt. He says the only reasonable thing in this situation: “It’s like wearing a marshmallow.”

Tony scrubs a hand down his face. “Yeah, you need meds. Sit tight.”

//

Bruce is in the lab, and Tony has never been so thankful for this man’s presence.

“Please tell me we still have Steve’s fever reducers,” he asks, heading towards their makeshift med-cabinet, because they literally live in a house of weird supers. “Kid has a fever and refuses the medbay.”

He enters in his passcode for the top drawer, finds a bunch of bottles labelled mostly for _In Case of Poisoning_ , and slams that shut real fucking fast.

“You know you can make him, right?” Bruce supplies helpfully, rummaging through one of the cabinets. “What’s his fever?”

Tony sighs, drags a hand through his hair. “Last check twenty minutes ago was 102, so.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. Tony stares at him.

“I’m just saying,” Bruce explains, and Tony breaks the glare to pilfer the middle drawer. Half of this shit is just basic first-aid, but he does find an orange bottle labeled _For Captain Ass_. “Tony, his base temperature is low to begin with.”

“Which is why we need the fever reducers.” He grabs the bottle, glares at the small, purple pills. “These ones, right? Or were these the sleeping pills? Did we give those back to him?”

Bruce, the gentle giant, rests a hand on his shoulder. “If it gets any higher—”

“If it gets any higher, I’m calling Cho,” Tony says, because he’s not letting this kid melt. “Purple?”

“Purple,” Bruce confirms, offering a knowing smile, and Tony doesn’t think about that too hard. “And yes, Steve took the sleeping pills back. I found him passed out on the couch an hour ago watching _Survivor_ with Sam.”

Tony sighs. “Yeah, that checks out.”

//

Upon return, Tony notices two things:

One, Peter is still awake, which is good, because he has to get at least three of these pills down the kid’s throat, and waking Peter up when he’s sick sounds like an absolute nightmare. So, that’s good.

Two, however, is not so good, because Peter is hunched over in his bed, bile running down his chin and onto his shirt. Tony immediately regrets his earlier comment.

“Oh, kid.” Tony sighs, disappearing into the bathroom for a minute to wet a cloth, get a glass of cool water, and grab a bin under the sink for good measure. Peter is exactly where he left him, pale and shivering, and his eyes are glassy and unfocused—it’s not a good look on him, Tony decides. The kid’s too sharp, too energetic.

“S’rry,” Peter offers weakly, and Tony wipes his chin first, shaking his head. Leave it to Peter to apologize for being sick. “Jus’…”

“Hey, if I had to apologize for every time I threw up,” Tony says, helping Peter shrug out of his shirt, “I’d… I don’t know, ‘sorry’ isn’t in my vocabulary, but you get my point. Can’t be sorry for something like this, buddy.”

Peter laughs wetly, and he’s definitely crying, but Tony just helps him into another t-shirt—one of his science puns one, because of course—and eases him back against the pillows. God knows how many times Pepper and Rhodey had to do this for him, he figures.

“Had a dream,” Peter says quietly, and Tony tosses the soiled shirt into the laundry basket and adjusts the bin so that it’s in relatively easy access for Peter. “Drowned in a building…”

Tony can’t exactly decipher that, isn’t sure he wants to, and he’s a little worried Peter’s brain managed to come up with something like that in the short time he was gone, so he shakes out a few of the pills. Peter is staring at the ceiling, hands fiddling with the edges of the blanket, and Tony quietly murmurs, “FRI, scan.”

“ _101.9, Boss_.”

Fever’s going down, so that’s fantastic, but he’s not sure if Peter is coherent.

“Got drowned,” Peter mutters, then clicks his tongue against his teeth. “No, almost drowned. Crushed. Buildings. I don’t like buildings.”

“Fever dreams, Pete?” he asks, but Peter shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at something Tony can’t see.

He says, “Toomes, in a building. Wings. Broke the building. The fever’s adding water,” and Tony puts two and two together, sees himself standing on a roof with Peter scared and young and not understanding the role of responsibility, and his heart breaks in ways he doesn’t know how to handle.

“Shit, Peter,” he mutters, and the kid just—waves a hand, still staring at something, like the ceiling holds all the answers. Friday does, maybe. “Toomes dropped—”

“A _building_ ,” Peter clarifies, and then promptly throws up again.

//

Ten minutes later, Tony has the poor kid changed, again, and settled into the fresh sheets.

He can’t stop shivering, and with two of the pills and a decent amount of water in him, his fever is slowly going down; he’s definitely more coherent, which means the teenage embarrassment is in full swing. Tony feels a little bad for him, if only because Peter looks absolutely miserable.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, curled up in the blankets, and Tony knows he can’t get warm. “I think I’m done.”

“FRI, turn the heat up ten percent, would you?”

“Mr. Stark—”

“Unless you’re about to tell me Iron Man is your absolute favourite, I’d think twice,” Tony says, and Peter is definitely pouting, but there’s a hint of the fire back in his eyes, so that’s—that’s good. “People get sick, kid. I’d rather this than find you passed out in the bathtub with a concussion.”

Peter’s eyes go comically wide, and he sits up. “Oh my _god_ , my phone, it _drowned_ —"

“What.”

“My phone,” he says solemnly, burying his face in his hands, and Tony is half-afraid he’s going to puke again. The bin is on standby. Tony has this. “It fell in the tub and I think the drain ate it.”

A beat of silence. Tony tries desperately to process this.

“The… kid, that’s not how bathtubs work,” he says gently, and the fever isn’t completely gone, so this conversation is completely logical to Peter’s brain. It has to be. “I’ll fish out your phone for you, yeah?”

Peter nods, and Tony treks into the bathroom to find a cracked, beaten-up phone chilling by the plug. It’s in working condition, though the battery is dwindling to a measly six percent, and he comes back in, holds it up for Peter to see that it still exists, and then plugs it in on the kid’s nightstand. It beeps at him. The background is a picture of him and Peter that Peter had managed to sneak a few weeks ago, the two of them in the car on the way back to Queens, Tony’s sunglasses on top of his head and Peter’s grin so wide the kid’s eyes are glowing.

He has a _heart_ condition. This should be illegal.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter mumbles, and he sounds so exhausted, Tony is pretty sure he’s about to say yes to whatever Peter is going to ask. God _damn_. “M’sorry, this is… it’s gonna sound stupid, but…”

Peter won’t finish, and Tony knows he won’t, because Peter never asks for anything he needs, so Tony takes pity on him. “Kid, do you want me to stay?”

“Please,” he whispers, and Tony thinks of buildings and how much crushing weight that must have been, and why fever-dreams are drowning him, and Tony having to fish a fifteen-year-old kid out of a lake when he was on the other side of the world. “You don’t—you don’t have to—”

“FRI, lights at five percent,” Tony says, and the lights go down and Tony sets the bin on Peter’s side, just in case, and he climbs onto the bed over the blankets, and Peter tucks against him. He’s shivering but warm, still fevered, and Tony curves his arm under Peter’s head and brushes sweaty curls from the kid’s face. “Just sleep, Pete.”

Peter’s breath is warm on his collarbone. “No more ravioli. Ever.”

“Don’t worry,” Tony reassures him, digging out his own phone from his pocket and ensuring the brightness is low enough; Peter doesn’t stir. “Pretty sure FRI recorded all of this.”

“ _Confirmed, Boss.”_

//

(In the morning, Pepper finds the two of them fast asleep, and she snaps a quick picture on her phone. Peter is drooling, and Tony is snoring, and she sends it to Happy.

It’s her contact picture for Tony and Peter for a long, long time.)

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to scream @ me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/sumpetals) & [tumblr](http://sumpetals.tumblr.com) ♥


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